I practically devoured the words in the book, “It’s the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting,” Despite the fact I hadn’t yet nailed down a “dream,” I knew after reading that book that a journey impended my bubble dwelling in my parent’s home.

I worked at a makeup counter during the holidays to earn the funds needed, I learned Italian in my car via Pimsluer CD Lessons, and took counseling to prepare emotionally.  With financial and mental prep in tact, I headed to the country that holds my heritage (on my dad’s side. My mom is scattered all over Europe- perhaps she is the spawn of my fleeting attention).

The first night we arrived in Firenze, my roommates and I ate at a restaurant near our apartment.  I ordered gnocchi with a gorgonzola cream sauce because I saw it on Food Network once and it looked like glistening diamonds.  I don’t remember much about that night (because as Americans, we also ordered a gallon of wine) aside from the moment my mouth touched down on the clouds of creamy heaven… and those diamond dumplings became my best friend…as well as the birth of my dream- to eat Italy.

From that day forward, I found myself not walking to historical sites, but instead searching for the best pasticerria or café or gelataria and while on the way to those eateries, I stopped in to see the David (what a stud!) or “The Birth of Venus” (all of Boticielli’s women figures have prehensile toes, like me!)  or Giotto’s “Stigmata of St. Francis” (Giotto seemed like a mighty fine chum!).  I nibbled my way through the streets of Florence and other cities, exposing the countries most authentic flavors and ultimately exposing my underpanties while busting the zipper of my favorite pair of jeans.

Woopsy Daisy...

Gelato- I ate if for breakfast dessert, lunch dessert and dinner dessert.  If a gelato hat existed, one equivalent to that which holds two beer cans with funnels, I proudly would’ve worn it for the sake of constant satisfaction – that or a gelato I.V. The Pan di Stella flavor at Corona’s Cafe in Florence was my drug and eventually my stomach. Trust me, I tried everywhere and should be an ambassador for gelato and this place had me at “How many scoops?”…Three please, for now.

Culinary Velvet

Panini- “Walk into the central market from the main entrance and walk all the way to the right.  If there is not a line at the food joint you turned left and ended up in the wrong place,” my uncle so passionately advised before my departure.  I took his advice to stomach and made that trek once or twice a week for the “Panini con salsa verde.”  I described this meteor of flavor in a haiku for my creative writing class:

Wet Sloppy pork fat

Lying within soaked bread

And stuck in between my teeth

Pork Sandwiches Unite

Ribolita Soup- A peasant dish tenderly simmered with broth, white beans, day old bread soaked to the point of creaminess, and a garnish of freshly shaved parmiggiano and olive oil.  Locals recommended this dish at Trattoria Mario right behind the Central Market.  The taste is so genuine it warmed my soul.

The Menu is Hand Written Daily, on Papyrus

Farinata- It is a garbanzo bean “flat bread,” if you will.  You must travel to the Genoa region for this treat.  I did and ate a bakery’s worth of it.  While you’re up there, savor the pesto.

Bart Supports Farinata. So should you!

Pizza- Napoli.  The city is run down, scary and disappointing (unless you fancy porn museums of the ancient kind..Dave Glenn, are you reading?).  Yet I will travel there the rest of my life for what is the most radiant expression of pizza in all of Italy. The crust both crispy and chewy, the cheese both light and creamy, the olive oil both pure and succulent- each bite is both a dance and a symphony.

"Nothing Compares to You"

Pastry- You can’t go wrong, unless the pasticierria has photo copied pictures of its menu. Run.  In any case, in any place…run.

I Tried All of These. Especially Loved Torta della Nonna

Poor Student Food- Nutella and a knife (or your index finger); canned tuna packed in olive oil; fresh bread, which I would demolish before reaching my apartment; befriend a local who happens to also be your family member (more stories to follow on this).  Creativity is easy in Italy because even the packaged items are exquisite.

YAH!!!

This boot, this Gucci boot of food is the center of my universe. The lingering textures and flavors still tickle my mouth and dazzle my heart…One morning after I returned to America, I fell onto the floor into a pool of tears while making myself scrambled eggs.  Even with the presence of a yoke, our eggs lacked color and vibrancy when Italian eggs, once scrambled, are orange.  I noticed that our balsamic vinegar tasted watered down and our prosciutto contained so much salt that I was forced to drink buckets of water following the consumption of merely five slices.  My devastation wore me down and whittled me back into a slim woman.

I hope to soon walk a mile in that boot once again, packing on two calories for each one I burn.  Until then, I will relish in places that supply me with like flavors, including Jones for spaghetti and meatballs and Mozza2Go for lasagna.  Osteria Boca on Melrose, Cube on La Brea, my nona’s kitchen in Gallup, and Bay Cities on Lincoln all make my digestive track go pitter.

Bon appetito! If you don’t know already, that means “good eats.”  Please, if you eat…make it good!

Pesto at its Finest

"Day Trip to Rome Eat Fest"- I Overate that Day..

You want-a meat-a ball-a?! Yes. Duh

Snack Time

Earlier this year, on a very uncomfortable and ball bruising bus in between the Bolivian side of Lake Titticaca and Lima Peru, I shared a bag of coca leaves with a group of chaps who had just finished up a few weeks in La Paz. They told me about “the easiest 6000+ mountain in the world” and I immediately knew that I would be back to La Paz at some point to officially “one up” my American friends for good. My friends and I are constantly trying to outdo each other and “one up” the other. A group of us climbed Mt. Whitney a few years back, the highest mountain in the continental 48 states, and we thought we were cool. But Whitney stands at 14k feet and some change, so to peak a 20k mountain would officially close that one-upping-category with Luke as the clear and away one-upper. The chap’s stories of the mountain were sparse and not very detailed, and it really would not have mattered what they had told me, as I was practically already on the mountain in my mind.

Six months later and the day of my adventure was upon me. I do not even know what the mountain is called and all I know is I need to get to La Paz. I had just packed my way too small JanSport backpack with the following that was supposed to last me eight days and take me to the top of the world.

• 2 pairs of ankle socks
• 1 pair of cycling socks with a giant hole in the heal of one of them
• 1 pair of smart wool socks that I have used so much you can see my skin through the very intelligent wool
• 1 pair of jeans
• 1 thermal cycling shirt
• 1 pair of wool thermal pants. extremely warm.
• 1 pair of slightly homosexual gloves
• 1 scarf
• 2 dress shirts
• 3 boxer brief underwears
• toothbrush but no toothpaste
• sunscreen that I never used
• pen and journal
• thin sweater
• deodorant
• iPod
• $40 digital camera and 2 spare batteries

And I was wearing jeans, a shirt, reebok shoes that have carried me around the world but are in no state to climb a giant mountain, and a thick jacket. As I stood above my backpack wondering if I could remove some underwear, here was the gameplan I was conjuring in my head. Fly to Calama in the northern part of Chile, go to bus station, get bus to La Paz, find party hostel, sign up for the mountain tour, walk up the mountain with ease, then the next day go to Uyuni Bolivia which is a giant salt flat used to take weird perspective photos, pop on over to San Pedro Atacama to sit in some thermal spas, and trot on over to Calama to catch my return flight. Seemed easy enough, so what does that really entail?

I arrived in Calama. Calama is probably the closest main airport to use if you want to see the Atacama dessert in San Pedro. Every chilean will say it is a must see place so I intended to stop by at the end of my trip but I wanted to give myself ample time in La Paz to figure out how to climb the mountain. Calama itself is a one horse town. You truly feel as though you are in a dessert and the terrain is flat with small undulations, brown, and generally lifeless. A miners town that has two main streets, one to go each direction. Every bar is a girly bar and I am pretty sure the inbreeding had begun early here as the population looked “odd.” If you have an old epson printer from the 80′s, it is hear you can find that non-existent print cartridge. Be sure to talk with Andrea at the bus terminal. She will try and impress you with her overly shiny braces and her impeccably wrong advice about her own town. I learned that a bus from Calama to La Paz just doesn’t exist and was reminded for the first time of many reminders that the earth is huge. So I had to take a ten hour bus to Arica, northern Chilean border town where I could then find another six hour bus to La Paz. The first of many bus trips began.

Luke’s Guide to Long Distance Bus Travel

In South America, the cheap, and many times better way to travel, is by bus. The land is dissected infinite times with the veins of a bus network that coarses giant double decker buses with champagne services, fully reclining seats, movies that never made it to cinemas, and smelly anti-deodarant using latinos. In February, my girlfriend and I were in Rio for Carnival and we had the great idea to take busses from Rio to Machu Picchu Peru for our return leg only to find that Machu Picchu wa closed when we got there. That week of 250+ hours in a bus taught me many things that should be shared.

• Always board with a box of cheap wine. Screw top is awesome compared to pushing the cork in.
• Window seats can often times have a draft coming through the windows.
• Always bring a blanket.
• Although human feces is 90% water, it does not mean that you can take a shit in a toilet that says “fluids only”
• The bottom level of a bus will have less swaying movement but will always smell worse.
• Front seats will have good views many times but on an over night bus, who cares. You will also be moving the fastest when turning.
• Back seats have less motion and can be a great place to have sex, but sometimes they will not be able to recline all the way.
• The movies will always suck. Who gives a shit about an argentine girls field hockey team?
• Good luck waking up at four in the morning after drinking a load of wine, stumbling through a jibbing and jiving bus that feels like it is moving at 200 miles per hour, get to the bathroom after putting your hand on three peoples sleeping face’s, and try to take a piss with a boner. I invite you to imagine my position in the bathroom, trying not to fall in to the blue chemicals while still not peeing on the ceiling.

So I arrive in La Paz without a plan or reservation and walk down the hill from the bus station. La Paz is above 3,000 meters elevation (10k feet) and the sneaky altitude will smack you in the face the first opportunity it has. I parused the streets looking for gringos. I found two australian chaps who informed me that the whole world is staying at the Rover Hostel. To the rover hostel I went. An Irish run behemoth of a party hostel with everything you need to make sure you never need to experience any culture while staying in La Paz. English breakfasts, a tab system at the very happening bar, tour office downstairs, WIFI, and ATM not too far away. I paid my $5 bucks and signed up for the 16 person dorm for three nights. Sufficient time I thought to acclimate myself before climbing the mountain.

The first night I found myself involved in a giant gringo trap. The hostel gets everyone drunk with specials and happy hours and then says to everyone that there is a bus outside going to a rave with free entry. Alright!. We all pile into the bus that is ludicrously over capacitated and we are forced to sit four to a two person seat. We drive into the darkness singing songs and cracking jokes from our respective countries. At some point the bus jolts to a stop and we are informed that the bus has broken down. We all spill out through the windows and door to see a crippled looking wheel so I believed them. We were told we could walk the remainder to the rave. After our 30 minute walk, we arrive at the rave to see the measliest looking tent and maybe a dozen people. The music was bad but the drinks were cheap and our arrival brought a little life to this dead rave. That night four digital cameras were stolen, three phones, and two iPods, one of the cameras being mine. For that reason this travel blog will not be a photo blog and I am still waiting to receive photos from friends I made along the way. Despite the lost camera, I enjoyed myself until I wanted to leave. It was 7am and there was no bus. I waited on the road for a taxi that never came. I appeared to be in some remote looking valley with a few mud houses around and not much else. I joined a group of six who were all trying to get back to the city. At this point I felt like I had pneumonia as I did not have a sweater. A truck came down the road and pulled over and waved over to all of us to jump in the back. In the back of the truck sat five bolivians, one probably with my camera, a dirty looking gringo (me) who was uncontrollably shivering, and a giant generator that was not tied to the truck. The truck sped off down this valley at break neck speed as if the guy was not carrying a cargo of six people and a generator that was sliding around uncontrollably. My shivering from cold turned into shivering from fear as we sledded around turns and ran through stop signs. After 30 minutes, he dropped us off at a bus point, where I got in a communal bus, refused to pay, got dropped off about four kilometers from the hostel, and arrive at the hostel just in time for the continental breakfast. Day one in Bolivia.

The next day I set the plan in motion and signed up for the “mountain tour” which cost me about $100. It would have cost more but I lied and said I had years of mountain experience so they said I did not have to go the first day with the rest of the tour. This day is for learning how to use the ice axe and crampons and rope and in general to help acclimate you to the altitude. All of this I had no idea how to do nor was I acclimated, nor would I be after three days in La Paz. Everyone told me I needed two weeks in La Paz to acclimate. I used the excuse that I lived in Santiago and cycled so my heart was strong as a Bolivian llama. While I was in the tour office I decided I would spend the day before the mountain (tomorrow) riding a mountain bike on the World’s Most Dangerous road. Again I paid less than everyone else since I said I only needed the hard tail bike while the rest of the tour got the full suspension. The rest of day two was spent relaxing/recuperating and winning a quiz that got me a free t-shirt.

World’s Most Dangerous Road

For $40 you can rent a high quality mountain bike and descend 60 kilometers on a road that has claimed more lives than any other. The road gets it’s name from the fact that many a bus fell down it’s precariously steep 1,000 foot cliff edges, which meant that all the passengers died, which makes for high death counts. To ride a bike is relatively safe and there have only been 25 deaths in the last 15 years. 14 of those deaths were Israelis who apparently are unruly and uncontrollable. 17 of those deaths were females riding too slow, pfffff. You descend from 4400 meters to 1200 meters over the 60 kilometers going from treeless mountains to hot and humid jungle. The ride was a little slow for me but fantastic none the less and I highly recommend it. You conclude the ride at a remote little hotel with a buffet lunch and a clean pool and a three hour bus back to La Paz. Finished that day at a karaoke place where we received chants of “Grin-GO! Grin-GO!”

Huayna Potosi

The morning of the mountain had come. I was picked up early and taken to a place to get all the gear I would need which was pretty much everything. I was kitted out in a rush, nothing was explained to me, and then I was put into a car which drove me for two hours on a dirt road to a small little house where I was instructed to eat the chicken and rice and not ask questions. The whole time in the car I could see the mountain I was to climb the next day and it was maybe the most beautiful mountain I had ever seen. The weather was perfect and was to be perfect for this entire adventure including a full moon to come in handy during the night time climb.

After the chicken, I was introduced to my guide who spoke no english and used a mixed version of Spanish and some indigenous language I was not aware of. Neither of us learned the other’s name and we both called each other amigo. I was supposed to meet up with an Argentino who had paid the extra amount (normal amount) and was already up at base camp. I took what I hoped to be my final shit and headed up to base camp which was a 400 meter escalation and sat at 5100 meters. I found this initial portion easy, a little too easy, and in fact was pulling the guide up and offering to carry his bags in a sneaky form of mockery. I should not have done that.

Base camp is a rather large two story wooden cabin and two bathroom shacks that were not clean and did not smell good. The cabin was nestled on a ledge that overlooked the mountain range and the view was truly spectacular. Glaciers were slithering all around and clouds would sore right past your nose on their way to wherever it is that clouds go. The earth and rocks were painted by an army of painters who all had their own opinion of what brown was. And ever vigil above us, was the peak of Huayna Potosi in all her glory. The wooden interior to the cabin is covered with the signatures of all the peoples that made it up there. “Bob was here, and Jack was not. Ha.”, “If you have mind over matter, then nothing else matters.”, “MICK FROM IRELAND 2009!” The upstairs was one large room that we were to all sleep in that had one inch mattress’. Downstairs was a few tables, an area to put all our backpacks, and another sleeping area that looked much more comfortable but was reserved for the high paying customers.

It is amazing that a bunch of Bolivians hauled all the materials to build this large cabin. While I was there I watched a Bolivian sprint up about 250 meters of ice and rock to go help some italian one legged climber who was struggling to get down from that days group of climbers. I watched a 12 year old kid wrap a sheet around his back, load it up with two huge bottles of methane gas, and jog up the mountain to base camp, and he was wearing half destroyed sandals. My respect for the guides and their ability to do what they do several days a week grew rapidly as the hours of that first day passed by my slowly weakening eyes.

I arrived at base camp around 2pm to find there was already about 15 other people their with another five guides. Why I paid less to get to this point was becoming painfully obvious as my guide did not speak to me nor offer me any advice, food, and/or water. Everything I learned at this point was from listening to the other guides. The only thing he had told me was that the Argentino had stomach problems and would not be climbing with us and it was just me and him.

The argentine was a jolly chap who was as wide as he was tall. We had some great conversations and I wish he would have climbed with us but it was clear he was suffering when he would suddenly sprint to take a dump. He had brought enough gear to last three months alone on the mountain which came in very handy for me.

The other climbers were all playing some card game and all of them immediately bothered me. Not sure why. It might have been the one douchebag Irish guy and his incessant whining, but who knows. I avoided them and chose to stay outside and take in the grandeur and beauty around me and try out some meditation and a few lines of writing. While the group jammered on in the cabin apparently feeling no effects from the altitude, I was starting to get the first signs of altitude sickness. I shrugged them off at first and went inside for dinner at 5pm.

The plan of attack was to eat dinner at 5pm, go to bed at 6pm, wake up at 1am, eat breakfast, strap on your crampons and walk on a 50% slope for six hours to the summit about 900 vertical meters higher than we were, absorb what oxygen you can steal at the summit for 20 minutes, then descend back to the cabin in a two hour sprint of glory. Sounded brutal to me but no worse than 13,000 feet of climbing on the bicycle. Dinner started to be served and I watched the other groups scarf down their pasta and steaks. The argentine and I were getting anxious and when our guide finally arrived, I wanted to cry. He brought a bowl of rice, two spoon fulls of tuna, and a quarter of a tomato. I attempted to eat, but the stomach was not having it and the pains I was to suffer for the next six hours began. I told the argentine my head was starting to heart and he instantly ran up to his medicine cabinet he lugged up there and gave me four pills to remedy.  I drank a shit load of tea while I regretted the fact that I had forgot the chocolate and peanuts I had bought at the house below base camp. I knew I needed energy but I simply could not stomach the food.

Bed time! You ever try to go to bed at 6pm? Not easy. Especially when it is cold as hell, you are wearing every single layer of measly clothes you have, including a loaned jacket from the argentine, and theres 15 other people around all making noises. When everyone else is wearing a north face jacket, the sound of that material rubbing against itself, becomes internally murderous. I laid down on my mattress which was probably worse than the floor, and put my head phones on to listen to a little Rachmanimov to pump me up. Somehow, dude from Ireland is already sleeping and snoring… loudly. My stomach is twisting itself three times in my stomach and I have to constantly adjust my position to untwist it. The pain was agonizing and I hoped that it was just a giant fart bubble accumulating in my stomach that would eventually escape. I struggled to lick my lips they were so dry and I had only enough water for the climb so I decided to eat Carmex chapstick to lubricate them. I writhed in agony until about 12:15 am and then I lingered in some sort of mild dream state where I imagined I had harnessed the acclimated Bolivians and used them to make t-shirts that we sold to the climbers. No idea how to translate that dream. Then at 1am, four satellite synchronized watches all started blaring and the climb was on.

My breakfast was supposed to be a piece of bread. No butter, jam, or anything… just bread. Thanks amigo. I couldn’t eat it anyways and sucked down on some herbal tea. The stomach pains had gone for the most part thankfully. My guide seemed unconcerned with my lack of digestion and left me on my own to figure out how to put the harness on and the rest of my gear, which I had no idea. I was wearing four layers and found it hard to move properly but it was necessary in the cold that I am sure got colder as we ascended. My rented boots were enormous and I have no idea how I let this mistake happen at the rental place. With all my strength, I could not get these tight enough to not slip. Great. At some point, I appeared to be sufficiently ready and the guide tied a rope to me, and we headed to the start of the trail.

The start of the trail is a vertical ice wall. I have used crampons one other time in my life walking on a glacier in the south of Argentina but that was a joke. This was some serious shit and I began to feel that maybe I should not have lied about my experience on a mountain. I invented a way to put the crampons on to my over sized moon boots, turned on my way under powered head light, clapped my hands, and shouted “Hot Damn! Let’s do this.”

With crampons you can easily scale a vertical ice wall, to my shock, although my moon boots were slipping and sliding and I tried to ignore the images of blisters I would see in ten hours time. Walking at altitude of this nature forces you to breath heavy… always. Walking up a steep glacier with a way too short ice axe to stabilize you and a Bolivian mountain goat urging you to walk faster forces you to pant frantically… always. But I pushed on and felt good. We maintained a good pace and had distanced ourselves from the other groups who could only be seen behind us with their little head lights bobbing up and down. We would walk for a few minutes then would take 30 second breaks. Your steps are about eight inches and at some point I tried to do the math of how many I was to make that day but then my mind exploded and I gave up.

The guide I was pulling up the day before was now putting his hands on his hips and tsk tsk’ing me as my pace began to slow. “How long have we been walking?” I asked at one point, sure that we had at least reached the half way point. “One hour amigo.” I wanted to cry and it was the first of several times that day I wanted to give up. In general, I do not give up. Never. I had come a long way to be in this position and despite it’s sadomasochistic appearance, I had to complete my goal. But this shit was hard. Incredibly hard. Each step was like I had a small child hanging on to my leg. The mountain loomed tall over us the entire time and it was easy to think that we would never make. The thought of telling my girlfriend and friends, “Well, I was really close to the top. Pretty good huh?” ultimately kept me moving.

After four hours the groups had merged and our death march continued. There was no talking. There was no playful banter or funny games you play with someone who is attached to you by a rope. You stare at the ground trying not to fall over and trudge on hoping and wishing that at each turn you are to see a sign saying “Summit, 25 meters.” It never came.

After five hours my hip started to hurt and I demanded to take longer and longer breaks. My lack of food and energy was beginning to show itself in my poorly selected steps. I felt like a zombie and that was necessary as the rational Luke would have only gotten in the way at that point. But sometimes, life has a way of knowing these things and decided to try and help me out. We took a break and I slammed myself down on some ice and began my deep meditative breathing and then I saw it. The darkness was waning and we had the world’s best vantage point to witness the most beautiful sunrise I have ever seen in my life. We were well above a featureless cloud cover that was pierced by four other behemoth mountains in the distance. At the horizon was a giant red-orange ball propelling itself above the cloud cover casting it’s glow proudly over the clouds. The largest mountain top had developed a hat of clouds and was flashing lighting while the sun was doing it’s thing. The full moon could still be seen in the same visual. I panted frantically, but smiled enormously and determined that if I were to lose my legs right now, this would make the climb worth it despite what my friends and girlfriend would say to me.

The final 50 meters to the summit were brutal and by far the hardest. My boots were sliding out of control and I am pretty sure my guide pulled me up for the most part. The summit was not large and sat precariously over a 1000 foot vertical drop to one side. I hesitated to stand on the three meter square summit due to my wobbly nature. I had some Czech guy take a picture of me with his camera and stammered to him that I would find him and get that picture some day. I could have slept there all day after my night of no sleep and lack of nutrition but I had to go as other climbers were starting to fill up the summit. I had done it.

But now I had to get down and I was in no condition to walk, let alone descend this agro-crag. My self motivations previously were only thinking about the one way journey and it did not occur to me that I would need strength to go down. I was wrong. The guide at this point begins to yell at me and explain to me how I am putting him and myself in danger and that I should have eaten something. At this point the fart bubble I had felt the night before was beginning to release itself and I responded to him in loud splattery farts. These farts succumbed to intense pressure to take a shit and I began to weigh the consequences of taking a dump in my four layers of clothes. I told the guide basically to shut the fuck up, in Spanish, and explained that we had no options and I would just go slow. Every 40 steps or so I would have to stop and arch my back backwards to stop my ass from exploding with some Bolivian soup I ate three days ago. I complained to him that I needed to take a dump but he said I had to wait. Finally I gave up and untied the rope, walked 20 feet off the trail all the while rushing to pull off my multiple layers, sat down, and let out the best shit of my life. How I did not get any on my clothes I do not know but I will thank the mountain gods for that. The argentine and his polar sweater should also thank them.

The next two hours were rather uneventful and extremely painful on the blistered feet. I arrived at the cabin exhausted, beaten, and dissolved. The spirits of the other climbers were unusually high and I wish I could have joined them and thrown out some high fives, but I focused on removing my boots and laying down on some rocks. I shared my pains with the Argentine who was very supportive and in general, a great guy. Another 400 meter descent to the first camp, another two hour dirt car ride, and I was back in La Paz. High five Luke.

The Trip Home

I considered shacking up in the five star Hilton in La Paz for a night of recovery but instead opted to go to the bus station and get a 14 hour bus to Potosi to walk around in a mine and try and blow up some dynamite. The dynamite didn’t happen but a few hours hunched over in a mine being the translator for a Japanese guy was pretty fun. Bolivians work in that mine for about $6 a day hauling about ten tons of material ea day, each of them! There is at least one accident every day at that mine which I was not a part of thankfully. The spanish had come there 500 years earlier to force the indians to live in the mine for six months without leaving. When the Indians decided to not work, the Spanish went to Africa to bring in some strong black guys to do the work. They all died after three weeks due to altitude and not being as storng as they looked, poor bastards, and the solution was to build devil figures in the mine and tell the indians that if they did not work, the devils would do bad to them. This worked.

I arrived in Potosi at 6am, left the mine at 12 noon, and decided in a fit of love and passion to make the journey to see my girlfriend in La Serena Chile for a romantic beach holiday in our own private beach house. This journey involved a six hour bus to Oruro Bolivia where you never want to be unless you like watching 34 dogs rampage a town where the entire population is a taxi driver. From Oruro I took a 10 hour bus to Iquique Chile. From Iquique I finished my journey with an 18 hour bus to La Serena to be greeted by the very welcoming arms of my girlfriend.

The weekend with her was amazing and made the lengthy bus journeys a vague and distant memory. Punto del Churo is a must do for anyone visiting Chile. be sure to bring food any money before arrival.

One more nine hour bus ride to Santiago and I was home again. New stamp in the passport and one more box checked off on the list of life I call Luke.

(Authors Note: Catalina makes you do funny things. Things you would never do elsewhere. To that end, I will be using fake names to protect the alternate identities that may be featured in this tale.)

The Island

The Preparation

We always reserve anywhere from one to three campsites. You are supposed to have no more than four people

Arriving into Town

per campsite. We arrive with 30 or more people always. This makes for an interesting arrival on the island when you are talking to the ranger who remembers you from last year. The trip is always supposed to cost less than $100 and that includes the boat ride there and back. This $100 gets you a campsite, boat, food, drink, and random supplies. It is never enough for four days. I like to pack light and here is what I (or someone) will bring:

The Arrival

The boat ride is usually really rough. There is not much to look at except the smog dome of Los Angeles slowly fading away in the distance and the occasional whale or dolphin siting. Drinks are unusually expensive and I enjoy this time to prepare mentally for the weekend to come with deep breathing and deep meditation. When you hear the motors drop in tempo, you know you have arrived. You can run to the front of the boat and see a

That peak was the start of extreme cacti jumping

magnificent white cliff. In reality, it is not magnificent because it is a giant rock that has been covered in bird shit. There has always been talk to swim to the rock, and know its majestic properties, but no one has ever done it. We have been told if you jump off the boat, you will be arrested. By who? No one really knows what jurisdiction Catalina falls under. The boat arrives and the people disembark. Our pile of things will be about four meters high and 10 meters wide and require five sherpas to help us load the truck. When a boat arrives in Catalina, it is greeted by the analyzing stares of the people who have already arrived. Catalina is very contained and isolated, like a Bio Dome. You know what comes in, and you know what goes out. Although we would like to think so, we do not go unnoticed. The casual traveller to Catalina can sit down at the bar and easily converse with the locals. It wont be too long before they start hearing stories of us. I have heard these stories first hand when I was detached from the group. Stories of a whirlwind landing in Catalina, consuming everything, taking over benches, terrorizing the small boat dogs, harassing every female that doesn’t have huggies, infiltrating the camp fire chats, challenging everyone to a tug-of-war, sinking ships, burning the landscape, etc, etc. Like any myth, there is some foundation to be found in these tales, but rest assured that we all care deeply about this island and would never do anything to hurt her.

The Campgrounds

The campgrounds are connected to Two Harbors by a long and perilous dirt path that goes up and down and winds around. I always feel like I am putting in the code to Contra. There are no lights on this trail and it is rumored to have claimed the lives of three boy scouts. It has also been used as an inspirational masturbating

Just asking for the sea gulls to attack

point for a few of my friends. Although I have not partaken in the inspiration that Catalina provides for this activity, I do sympathize. Please read Laughter Across the Lake. Personally I like walking real fast to the point that the people I am with cannot keep up, then I hide in a bush, and I leap out at them as they walk by. My inspirational moment came one year after a frustrating night with a girl named Jessica. After she returned to her boat, I walked back to the campgrounds but on my way I stopped at the highest point overlooking all of the harbor. From here I bellowed at the top of my lungs “JESSICA!! JESSICAAA!!” and then continued back to camp. What she or her parents were thinking I do not know.

Each campsite is no more than a flat piece of dirt with a bench, fire pit, stove, and a plastic canopy. Each campsite amongst the 50 or so has its benefits and drawbacks. Naveen has an ordered list of the top 15 sites with a break down of their pros and cons. (Maybe he could provide this list?) Personally, I never gave a shit,

Right before we descended the mountain for extreme cacti jumping

and was happy as long as we did not have young children within visible range of our debauchery. The campsites were arranged on the side of a hill and at the bottom was the communal beach. To walk to the beach meant walking in the middle of other campsites. It was usually really easy to know if you were welcome in a campsite or not. Apparently if you scream and cuss bad words all night, sometimes you are not well received the next day by random families trying to enjoy their vacation.

The Snorkeling

Extreme Downhill Cacti Jumping

The Benches and Town

The benches are placed on the beach, but we drag them onto the main walking area to ensure that we are in

When I had muscles and no hair

the middle of everyones way. For those too young to drink at the bar, it is a place to sit, pound a very expensive can of bad tasting beer, and people watch, people heckle, or cry, or be angry. For those people who can enter the bar, it is a resting point to evacuate to when the bar situation is getting too out of control because Bald Doctor is sleeping at someones table with his arms and legs in his shirt, Axe is hitting on the wife of a fat sailor, Naveen is trying to dance with moonshoes, and Roaring is making out with the help.

Eventually the night will wind down and each individual will have their own way back to camp. I can remember one evening walking back to camp and encountering Carmat, the best saxophonist in the world. He was unusually sober, and I chided him for being so. I decided I would make him feel stupid by challenging him to a game of chess and making sure we put money on the game. I was a mess and could barely stand up. He beat me senseless in the game and took my money. I am pretty sure I wasn’t even moving the pieces in the correct places. None the less he took my money. I was infuriated and demanded he honorably give me my money back since the game was not held under sanctioned conditions. He refused. The following night, I walked back to camp to find Carmat once again. Only this time, the tables were turned and I was the unusually sober one and he was stumbling drunk. He decided his best option was to pass out on the bench in a most undesirable way. He had his stomach on the seat with his forehead resting face down. His arms and legs were hanging over the sides very limply. He was not a well shaped human being and was rather hairy. His ass crack was a disgusting site to say the least. Time to get even. We had purchased a 10 liter jug of peanut butter to be used by the group which was hardly used. I decided to use the entire jug to cover every inch of Carmat. Using sticks and other objects, he was completely covered. His face was absolutely featureless except for three straws I had placed in his mouth and nostrils. His ears did not exist. His hair was missing, it was like a blueman group guy but with peanut butter. Down his ass crack, his arms, his legs, his shoes, his socks, anywhere and everywhere. I left him that way and went to bed. The next morning I encountered Carmat completely cleaned up. The effort involved in that cleaning process I cannot imagine. We looked at each other and we had nothing to say. I felt I had gotten

beer die

even and he knew exactly why he got what he got. You don’t FUCK with me when it comes to chess. I am 1500+ on Yahoo if you want to challenge me.

My Attempt at Organizing Catalina

But Alas…

The Climate

When I arrived in February, it was hot. Real hot. A muggy hot which can only be produced by in a valley with enormous 3000 meter mountains completely covered in a 800 meter thick canopy of smog.

Now, in July, it is cold, real cold. The sort of cold that can only be created in a place that does not believe in insulation. I do not mind cold, I just do not like to live in the cold. I now wear my clothes into the bathroom to take a shower instead of just using a towel. I get completely dressed to go from the bathroom back to my room. (I hate this part because my life long selection of

Old Spice white stick deodorant gets on my shirt as I try to apply it without removing my shirt.) Socks are mandatory in the bed. My bed has six layers of blankets. I am currently writing this blog with an electric heater about 10 centimeters from my arm.

But after a cleansing rain and a light breeze in the early morning hours, the snow capped Andes are a captivating view that will never leave my brain.

The Level of Civilization

Many a philosopher has attempted to define and analyze civilization but in all my reading, I never encountered a very fundamental marker of society that I see almost everyday here in Chile. So here is my very refined and soon to be published genreal theory of “How to Measure South American Societal Development”:

The paramount marker to indicate the level of a society is to take notice if the wild dogs in the city are wearing clothes.

Chile is Developed

Having said that, I have also seen three separate instances of a homeless guy taking a dump on the sidewalk. So there are some holes in my theory.

Class War

In Chile, you have the Cuicos, the rich people, and the Fleites, the poor people. The fleite are a dangerous breed who will rob you of your pants and underwear in an instant. They will frequently ask you what time it is just to see what kind of watch you have. They like their reggae-tone loud and if a song sounds exactly like the song before it, the crazier they get. There language is fast and slurred and depends on phrases and sayings that would offend a sailor. They will burn a bus down to celebrate the victory of the Colo Colo football team. A Cuico is hard to find because no one will ever admit they are a Cuico for fear of being robbed by the Fleite. Cuicos like their American music and brag about the large selection of khakis they have in their new apartment. Their language is clear and precise and littered with English. If the University of Chile football team wins, they might read about it the next day.

Now, I am generalizing a little here and my sincerest apologies to both classes if I have offended you, but the point is that at the drop of a hat, a Cuico would bite the ear off a Fleite if given the chance and a Fleite would kick a Cuico in the shins if they got close enough to one. The hatred and fear of one another reminds me of 1840′s South Carolina.

The Cycling

The fastest way around the city, of course, is by bicycle. You can ride from one edge of the valley to the other in about an hour. You can ride on the highways even though there are numerous signs saying that you should not ride on the highways. There are cycle paths on the large streets and they have a monthly Critical Mass they call Ciclistas Furiosas. Sounds like a cyclists haven huh? On the contrary, Santiago is maybe the worst city I have had the pleasure of riding in. (Strictly riding for transportation, not training.)

The Ciclistas Furiosas is the most police orientated critical mass I have been a part of. They directed our group of 200 down a very quiet and out of the way path. The total length was about 38 minutes going six kilometers. We frequently stopped at red lights. The cycle paths are way too thin and are lined with big 15 centimeter concrete blocks ensuring you destroy a wheel if you think you can squeeze past the baby stroller using the cycle path. The roads are resurfaced cobblestone if you are not on a major road and many times, are cobblestone. Cars hate you. Taxis want to hit you. Busses want to murder you. The busses are the very long articulated kind which sound like a star wars jet fighter as they storm pass you glancing you with their mirror. They will gas it to make sure they are in front of you before the next stop even though that means everyone in the bus is slammed to the front after he applies his brakes heavily, just to piss me off. They will always look at you in disgust as they pass. A shoulder does not exist on the roads here and the side of the roads are generally in worse shape than the inside.

Having said all that, I enjoy dangerous cycling and squeezing myself between two wavering articulated busses at 50km/h, hanging on to the back of large lorrie trucks to take a breather, boring down on an intersection full of people trying to sneak across only to be missed by me and my Fuji by fractions of a second, sprinting down a two kilometer tunnel with the police behind me telling me that I cannot be in the tunnel, acting like I dont understand Spanish after two motorcycle cops pulled me over for riding too aggressively, racing a single bus across town to finally receive some sort of respect form the driver after I won… are good times and I am glad to be a cyclist.

The Night Life

The nights can be long and it is very possible to party your nights away until 6am. A good place will ahve multiple dance areas. One area for the mandatory reggae-tone and cumbia, and another for more of the type of music you would get back in the United States. There is one library of music that is shared by every location in Chile so get used to hearing the same thing a lot. It is acceptable to play the same song three times in an evening. Drinks are made strong and should cost you around four dollars. Taxis are relatively cheap although drunk driving has the consequences equivalent to jay walking so many people drive intoxicated. There seems to be a lot of options … everywhere. You are never far from a place to inbibe or sing karaoke. But many of these places are empty. You must dance, no more hanging out on the side sipping a drink. You arrive, and you dance, then drink a little, then sweat a lot, then dance. It seems my dancing style is acceptable here althoguh very gringo-ish.

The World Cup

Unfortunately Chile has been knocked out of the world cup. However, to live and feel the energy of a latin country engrossed by the fever of football is a magical experience. Win, lose, or draw, the people would gather in Plaza Italia to loiter, throw large bottles, jump and sing, and be generally violent. The police presence was imposing and very noticeable although they seemed to just let things go. The reason for that is they have this sneaky little inconspicuous truck everyone calls the skunk. When the party needs to be over, this truck sneaks up to groups of people, rolls down its windows as the people gaze at this weird looking truck, then gasses them with a high pressure gassing gun that can gas the hell out of a toddler from about 20 paces. The skunk is effective, albeit indiscriminate, and you can tell the police enjoy their job.

The People

Chilenos look like a mix of Native Indian and Oriental. Generally round faces with big dark eyes. At almost six feet, I am one of the tallest persons in the metro. Obesity does not exist but the men seem to develop a slightly pudgy build as they grow older. One of the first Chileans I spoke with was absolutely horrible to me and disrespected me badly due to my budding language. But since then, I have been fortunate and the people that I have come to know are all very beautiful people and day to day interactions are a joy.

The Language

Very fast and with a lot of slang. They regularly add “-po” to the end of sentences which can be distracting at first to a novice ear. Their “dude” is “weon(a)” but the problem is that if used incorrectly, you can sound extremely rude and risk a face slap or worse. The intonation of their voice will range from a subtle mumble to a “daaaammmmnnn” in almost every sentence. They love to inject sexual connotation into many phrases. Spanish is a lovely language and much more effective and eloquent than English. Thank you to everyone who has been patient with me and helped me along my way to conquer this new language.

The Money

In general, it is not cheap here. Most goods cost about the same and a trip to the supermarket seems to actually cost more than back in the US. But labor is really cheap. I can get my bike tuned up, cleaned, with wheel truing, for $10 bucks. I can get a four course meal for five bucks. You can buy very elaborate looking pottery for a dolalr making me think I want to have a party where everyone gets to break clay piggy banks that have prizes inside. As with every other country in the world, except the US, I regularly find a lot of coins in my pocket. ATMs need not to be trusted and if their is a sign that says it is not working, try anyways.

The Cajon del Maipo

About 50km outside of Santiago, you have a place that has stolen a part of my heart. Cajon del Maipo. It is a long slithering valley that pierces into the Andes. It is above the smog line and is accompanied with a fast moving river. I do most of my training here on the bicycle for visual inspiration. I hope one day to have a house here, I will make my front lawn a parking lot, and charge six dollars for people to use it.

The Viña and The Valpariso

The port of Santiago is about 120km due West. The port can be split into two main cities. Viña del Mar would be the equivalent of Newport Beach while Valpariso would be the equivalent of San Francisco. The beach is not for swimming, only for looking. The air is clear and breathable and the people are warm and inviting. I was literally booed off the stage singing “I Will Survive” in a karaoke bar where the DJ actually made the record screetch to a halt to emphasize the crowds point.

Style and Fashion

A chileno must have a jacket that has fur around the lining of the hood. Girls will always have black tights on. If you are Fleite your shirt has intentional splotches of paint strewn across it and your sweater has horizontal stripes with a dash of purple. If you are a girl and a frisky Fleite, you have painted your hair blonde to invite every cat call from every guy in the city.  If you are Cuico, you have a wool pullover covering a single color collared shirt. Your shoes are black or dark blue and your big jacket is the shiny poofy kind or a long trench coat. Girls love their boots here and are very good at walking and dancing in heels. In general, not very colorful, except for my girlfriend who has red, yellow, and green jeans.

The Culture Differences

It is not correct to call someone a friend if you just met them. It can be rude even to say someone is a friend if you just met them.

EVERYone knows every song and EVERYone knows special dances. It is in your blood.

Nothing can be purchased online and you must wait in long lines or go through very arduous processes to get anything done.

Like all latinos I assume, very family orientated. Although I do see a lot of “man does man things, the woman does woman things” which I do not really like. It was a big deal one time when I said I needed to clean the dishes because the ladies were doing way too much work.

A common vocation is to claim a road, and be its permanent parking escorter. If you park, someone WILL usher you out on to the street, even if there is no reason for it. And you WILL give that person a coin.

The Conclusion

I am really happy to be here and a giant Thank You to my girlfriend who has made this the best trip and best decision of my life.

“Santiago is surrounded in huge mountains. It’s in the freakin’ Andes!” I knew I was going to find the best cycling of my life. I anticipated people giving me a hard time since it would appear I was sitting on top of two adolescent children, which were really my new enormous legs. My lungs would frequently pull in birds flying at 1000 feet. However, with great sadness, this did not come to pass. Santiago truly is surrounded by the Andes, however these very gnarly agro-crags are not for riding and in fact the very intelligent Chilenos decided they would only construct a few carefully selected routes out of the valley that is Santiago. The air quality is atrocious and you are lucky to see the stars, let alone the person you are walking next to.

Not to be discouraged, I persisted and took the bike outside, picked a direction that appeared not to have a giant mountain too close to me, and rode. On that first ride, my bike went from tolerably useable to unpleasantly annoying and crippled. If you need to get your bike repaired in Santiago, you will be told to go to San Diego, a street absolutely filled with bike shops, one after another. For the most part you will be screwed if you are a gringo like me. You will get the usual “used car sales man” treatment where one thing that they fix will lead to another thing that they will need to fix to another and another. I can tell you, do not go to Esper Bicycles. Rip off. I hope this blog puts them out of business. For all your bike solutions, you need to use a combination of three places. For standard tweaks and fixes, go talk to Lopez in front of Cerro San Cristobal at the end of Bellavista. For much more complicated and tricky fixes, go to Dr. Bike, real name is Luis, on the 900 block of San Diego. For your bike parts, go to Rafael Vargas across the street from Dr. Bike. No need to experiment, believe me, they will get you sorted.

So after a new headset, a new big chain ring, trued wheels, welded bottom bracket, greased up wheels to avoid the absolutely atrocious noise these horrible wheels make, and many hours wasted, my bike was back in action ready to be tormented.

My search for the races prior to this adventure of bike fixing proved futile but after befriending the gentleman in these bike shops I can help you cut to the chase. You can view www.ciclismo.cl to see some options with a calendar of events coming up through the year. They have all your varieties of racing although the page functions poorly and everything but the road race (ruta) section is out of date. But if you are looking for “the dogs balls” (english saying) of races you need to go to http://ciclismolaboral.cl and you will not be disappointed. This year long racing “group” is as serious as it gets as I will get to in a moment.

So lets get to the point. My training was sparse. Maybe 4 days a week and no more than two hours at a time and mostly going up and down San Cristobal, a 6km climb in the middle of Santiago. Finally Lopez told me about a ride that starts on Saturday’s at 9am on Ruta San Martin right before the first peaje in the McDonald’s parking lot. I ride the 20km to get there and find about 60 older looking men and a few woman. Ultimately the ride was fantastic and we rode 100km through the foothills of the Andes at a very fast pace and averaged a solid 35km/h over four hours. I then rode back to my house to make the days total around 140km. The most I had ridden since my time in England riding with Johnny in Manchester several months earlier. All that knowing that I had a race the next day.

I woke at 7:45 am on race day for the 10am race start time. I knew I had to ride to the race start. All I knew was that it was in San Bernardo and Los Morros and I should ask the people when I get close. I looked up a place that seemed to be San Bernardo on Google maps and was ready for what appeared to be the 20km ride to the race. I figured that as I got close, I would see other bikes and cars with bikes so I was not worried that I did not have the exact location.  I set off in the morning, and encountered two guys who were going to the race. After 15 minutes they pulled over and said they were meeting a friend with a car at that spot but told me to just continue down the road for a little bit and I would be at the race. Ya right. From my house the race was a little more than 30km in the end. Thanks chicos. And I rode that 30km with pace once I realized I had a long way to go and I did not want to miss the race start.

Now, on the ride with the old men on Saturday, they made me feel that the race I was going to on Sunday was not very serious and was more of a galavant and everyone was there to have fun. They could not have been further from the truth. I arrived into the cycling world I had dreamed about and immediately I wished I was more prepared and had not ridden 140km the day before and 30km to the race. I was surrounded by hard core looking and very fit looking cyclists with the legs I had thought about before my arrival in South America. I signed up and was told I must race in Category A which is the top category. Not sure if this is because I am only 26 or look strong or what, but I begged to be put in B and they were not having it. The Masters groups went, the youths went, and finally our group of roughly 50 went last.

The race was 80km and all I was able to gather from others was that it was rolling ups and downs. One kilometer in to the race my bike computer ran out of battery so distance was only ascertained by using my mysterious sounding Spanish while we charged on at 40km+. Despite my large amount of recent kilometers, I was feeling good and stayed active in the front of the pack taking my turn to pull us along at unhealthy speeds over the rolling hills of the Andes approaching a majestic area of the world called Cajon del Maipo. After 50km and a few brutal short inclines, I found myself in the lead group with about 15 riders including one girl. The pace was break neck the entire time and as we peaked each crest, it was a sprint to try and smear mud in the eyes of the weakening riders. 65km and I was starting to think that I had a chance. I was doing my fair share of the work in our group and was feeling good, all though I struggled to say anything in Spanish at this point.  Then at 70km, only 10 more to go and without warning, it happened, I hit the wall.

I played soccer my whole life. I trained often and with vigor. In university we would train five hours a day, every day, and with more vigor than I knew I had in me. But only in an individual sport like cycling or swimming or running do you have the concept of hitting the wall. I did not literally hit a wall in this race, but all the physiological workings in my body basically said to each other “Fuck this. He thinks he can work us this hard? I am going for a break, see you in an hour.” We were scaling a very slight incline and despite my mental capacity to keep going, the body just would or could not keep going. I looked down and saw my legs literally melting off the bone as if I was on some mushroom trip in a Hunter S. Thompson book. Each push of the pedals would emit a splash of lactic acid that would burn away the surrounding foliage. My arms struggled to support my weight on the handle bars and my vision would blur and then focus and then blur again. I watched with desperation as I saw the lead group cycle away and what is worse is that they were leaving me in a place you never want to be. No mans land.

The loneliness in no mans land cannot be found in many places on earth. Maybe on the antarctic plains or at the high school prom during the slow dance when you do not have a girl on your arm. No mans land, in cycling, is the space between the various groups of cyclists that form during a race. You, the road, the wind, and no one to help you or give you a break. I worked my ass off for that lead group and their pay back was to kick me in the balls, spit in my face, and push me in to no mans land. As the chase vehicles passed me with shaking heads inside, I gazed around the fabulous landscape I was riding in with the towering Andes and lush rivers and greenery, and realized I was fucked. I had 10km to go and I might as well have gotten off and ran with my bicycle at the pace I was riding.

Ultimately I finished ahead of the main pack but by only seconds. I immediately ate three bananas, a pack of cookies, a coffee, a coca cola, and a chocolate bar. I was chatting with my new friends who seemed impressed with by abilities up until the point of my spectacular body explosion. I was told that the girl we were riding with was 5th in the nation. Also that we were missing five guys who were racing in Europe in some epic races. We had a former national champion in our group. The guy I was talking to and pulling along for a bit was currently some sort of Spanish junior champion. I had no idea that I was surrounded by bullies and pros of the road. This made me feel slightly better about getting dropped.

Then I was informed that where we finished was now 50km from Santiago and at that point I think my heart bounced off the shoes of my new cycling friend Jaime who told me this. I ate two more bananas, put my jacket on as we had climbed to a cold altitude and set off to complete my weekend of riding with a final 50km. Jaime and I took turns battling the constant head wind that funneled up the Cajon del Maipo valley. Brutal.

Eventually I arrived at my house to the open and very inviting arms of my girlfriend who seemed to have no problem embracing me when I was covered in salt crystals and wearing my cycling outfit that smelled like it had just received 300km of sweat in two days. She also seemed to recognize that I needed an extra large lunch and a fresh fruit shake with yoghurt and oatmeal. Gracias mi amor. You have no idea how much better I felt after that.

Next Sunday is race day, in fact every Sunday is race day from now on. I have new training partners now and I will be sure not to ride 140km the day before and make sure my new cycling friends drive us to the race and back home from the race. Medals coming soon!

Camera One: Bangkok, Thailand

If there is one thing I learned in my two month journey through Europe, it was to pack a lot less. I still regret bringing a -10 degree Celsius sleeping bag to Europe in the middle of summer which was the size of three new born babies and probably weighed as much. So when I left for Thailand on another two month trip, I brought a backpack the size of a Teddy Ruxpin backpack. How is this possible? The secret is to wear the same thing everyday for two months and be sure to move quick enough so as to not be noticed by your fellow travelers who are slower than you since they packed to much. How do you do this without having stink lines all around you like the kid from the Charlie Brown comics? Have the “goto shorts.” I loved these shorts, and they walked me through four continents before they disintegrated in the middle of a heavily congested intersection while I was giving directions to a place I did not know in South America. Before that, I was sitting in a hostel in Bangkok, discussing how it would be very easy to distract a tuk-tuk driver and borrow his tuk-tuk for a joy ride around the dirtiest city I have ever known. Whilst sitting and talking, I did not feel my camera slip out of my pocket and as I departed the scene after convincing everyone to give it a go, the camera remained on that red vinyl seat for me to never see again. Of course the camera is not the important part, it is the photos and videos inside. What I lost with this camera?

• Photo sequence of me teaching homeless youth how to thumb wrestle. Then betting him bubble gum. Winning many times in a row although the look on my face is of severe concentration as the kid was getting better and better with each game. My mouth had more and more bubble gum in it. Finally he wins, and I then ignore him so as to not pay him the bubble gum. My argument is that he cheated.
• Stolen photos of the bangkok ping pong show.
• Video of me convincing a tuk-tuk driver to let me drive his tuk-tuk. Tuk-tuks are motorized versions of the carts that you might have seen people pulling to move people around. I convinced the driver to give up his means of earning a living by showing him pictures of my brand new Suzuki GSXR 600. I was very likely intoxicated. I immediately peeled out and slammed him and my buddy to the back of their seats unable to lean forward to try and control my movements. I gunned it for the sea of tuk-tuks and joined their terrifying dance of locomotion. At 60mph the speed wobbles were tremendous and the steering wheel was almost impossible to hang on to. For that reason, I decided I had to video the situation and with one hand, reached for my camera and video taped the steering wheel shaking so violently it was impossible to put my hand back on to it and I found it hilarious to video my other arm, which was still holding on, shaking so fast it was only a blur. Additional video of two faces behind me, one from England and the other from Thailand, with a universal look of fear and discomfort, all the while with this high pitched screaching laughter that sounded like the cackle from the wicked witch of the west from the Wizard of Oz.

Camera Two: Las Vegas, Nevada USA

You know when you have an idea in your head that looks so perfect, you cannot help but follow through with that idea. And the whole time you are blinded to the fact that this really is not a good idea despite what everyone else is saying or screaming in your direction. Well as I jumped into the luxury looking bath tub in the luxury hotel room with all my clothes on including my camera in my pocket, I was temporarily blinded from any sort of logic.

And the amazing logic does not end there. After desperately trying to repair the camera by keeping it in a bucket of rice for two weeks, I decided to purchase the exact same camera with a warranty. I then replaced the case and anything else I could think of that would distinguish the bad from the good camera and intended on returning it using the warranty. Ultimately I never followed through with this plan due to my fear of being apprehended for fraud. Pictures I wish I had from this camera:

• No idea. I would love to have a video of me, extremely inebriated, trying to get into the very posh club at the top of some hotel in Vegas. The bouncers wouldn’t let me in because apparently I looked “too” drunk. I requested that they quiz me and test my wits as I felt entirely in the moment and could not understand why they would not let me in. Their question to me was “What club are you at?” and as fast as lightning with an extremely smug look on my face, I replied with “Easy, this one of course.”

Camera Three: Cuzco, Peru

Let me tell you what not to do in Peru. Do not go to the main market in Cuzco, eat a fantastic and cheap lunch, purchase some very cheap clothes, drink a splendid fresh fruit shake, walk outside with your girl on your arm thinking that the world is your oyster, and think that a bird just shat in your eye. At that moment in time, you are being robbed. It was an amazingly accurate shot. They spit in your eye from behind or the side. As you attempt to recover, a lady conveniently hands you a napkin, which at the time seems incredibly lucky and fortunate. All the while, little midget Peruvians are rummaging through your pockets and sprinting away as fast as they arrived. By the end of the three seconds, I had no clue what the hell just happened. I was still looking in the sky for that damn bird. I have had bad luck in my life with birds shitting on me. I will never forget the seagulls that invaded the quad in high school with minutes to go before class. It was like the administration paid the birds to swarm the students to get them to go to class. I was in mid sprint and as I leaped for shelter a seagull received radio confirmation to dive bomb me and nailed me in my ear and shoulder. So to receive a shitting in my eye was not out of the question for me in this moment in Peru. Katherine, the girl on the arm, remained unscathed and seemed to realize before the fact that something was going on. I lost my camera and more importantly the memories on the four gig memory card which included:

• A video of “Rosita” and Katherine getting acquainted. Rosita was a pink dune buggy that we rented that was incredibly temperamental and ultimately she blew all her fluids all over us, and not in a pleasant way. The video was priceless and rare footage of Katherine trying to drive.
• Me and Katherine in g-strings posing our hot bodies on the beach.
• A sequence of hilarious and very telling faces made on a 8 hour bus in between La Paz and Copacabana on lake Titicaca. A true series of faces that could maybe never be repeated that I would love to prin and put on my wall.
• Scenic pictures of Copacabana on top of this mountain after some grueling hiking.
• Buzios Brazil where life was grand and we were larger than life.

Conclusion

Tomorrow I will attempt to have camera number two repaired here in Santiago Chile. Should this fail, I will purchase another and make sure that it is of inferior quality and has the ability to be chained to my leg. Additionally I will be sure to download the pictures frequently and not rely on the memory card to store everything. Stuuuuupid.

First of all, the title of the blog. Absolutely spot on true. If you have not heard of the saying “going Dutch”, it means to split the cost of something, usually a meal or night out with a date. Personally I would love to see this adopted by the world. If I was a feminist, I would be outraged at the percentage of girls that put up a ludicrously poor façade that they would like to pay and then when you say “No No, it is OK.” they immediately smile, put their purse down, and order another drink. But I am not a feminist and I smile and nod at the waiter as I give him my left arm for payment. But the Dutch have caught on to this and they are all prepared to make sure that bills are evenly divided. The waiters wait (no pun intended) patiently around your table as 14 girls divide up 13 euros and make sure that the odd number penny is recorded so it can be recouped at the next meal out.

I find Dutch people have the same skull shape. If I were an archaeologist, I would write a paper on it right now and give up on this blog. Reminds me of a very wide squash that has 95% of the top thin portion removed. Same for girls and guys. I find Dutch men always bald in the same manner. Not the woman. Generally a very tall race of people. A good thing considering the country is sinking below the water line at an alarming rate.

The Dutch just do not seem to care. I am sure they care, but they do not show it. They are tasked with charging the world’s worst criminals but they do not care. It is fine to let that criminal bitch and whine for four years until he dies or allow him to claim he is ill so he can talk from his posh jail cell. I walked around constantly like a non-stealth ninja and no one said a thing. A few eyes glanced my way but the moment I gazed back with my ninja fierceness, they returned to their straight edged walk. I blatantly spat in their faces as I rode the wrong way in the bike lanes with my hands in the air and not taking into consideration that they had the kindness to make bike lanes on both sides of the road. Their freaking country is sinking! Not a word from the Dutch. Their front door steps are all at basement level, and no one says a thing. My uncle drove a ferrari into a canal and he just does not seem to mind that much. I suppose, having said all that, it is truly remarkable to be able to maintain that view point on life. It bugs me but I applaud your dedication.

The Dutch made their name on flowers, wooden shoes, windmills, and exploring the world. The latter being the most impressive but all of these things have a common thread. They are sinking! Flowers need water close to their roots. Wooden shoes are to ensure that they can float when the water level rises too high. Windmills, made of wood, to power a country covered in water. Exploration to find new dry lands. I did not hear a single Dutch person address the fact that they are one degree change in global average temperatures before they are living like the boat people in that Asian place I heard about. I would go crazy racking my brain for a solution. Maybe a few people already went crazy thinking about this and this was witnessed by other Dutch people, which spread the word around that if you worry about the water level, you go crazy. Or the solution is already in place and it is so amazing that they cannot reveal it to the rest of the world and they are gambling on the water level rising high enough to affect other parts of the world which they will then sell their idea to. I just cannot figure you Dutch out, throw me a freaking bone.

While trying to enter an empty bar in Den Hague, I was rejected at the door by the bouncer. It was clearly empty behind him. He looked at me, then looked me up and down, and said “I wouldn’t even go to the gym wearing what you are wearing.”